07:30 a.m. - At Adventurer's Guild, Dawnspire
The Adventurer's Guild hall was warm with lamplight and the smell of leather and ink. Timber beams crossed the high ceiling. A notice board covered one wall—job slips pinned in neat rows with cord and wax. Sera stepped inside in a plain cloak, a simple sword at her hip. Head low. Steps quiet.
At the long counter, a clerk looked up. Her hair was braided back, her eyes calm and careful. An oaken ledger lay open before her, sand at the ready for drying ink.
Mira (soft): "Good morning. Name and rank?"
Sera (even): "Sera. F-rank. Swordswoman."
Mira dipped her quill. She wrote with the neatness of someone who hated mistakes, dusting each line with fine sand before she turned the page.
Mira (soft): "Do you have a sponsor?"
Sera (shook head): "No sponsor."
Mira nodded once. She warmed a thumb-sized bead of brown beeswax over a small lamp, pressed the silver stag seal into it on a narrow docket strip, and set the strip to dry beside the ledger. Then she took up a little iron token from a drawer: plain, with a single notch for rank.
Mira (soft): "Guild rules: obey city law, return with clean countersigns, and no brawls in the hall. There is a small fee."
Sera set two small silvers on the board.
Mira (soft): "Your token. It shows rank at a glance. Wear it where the gate guards can see."
She passed Sera the iron token tied to a thin leather thong and slid the sealed docket across as a record of entry.
Sera (nodded): "Understood."
Mira leaned in a touch.
Mira (soft): "Most jobs pass through me. Bring back your dockets sealed proper. I dislike messy ink and broken wax."
Sera allowed a small, polite smile. She adjusted the thong, tying the token at her belt so it showed below the cloak's edge.
Footsteps crossed behind them. A young runner in a short coat carried a stack of notices from the back. He moved fast, eyes quick, hands steady. He grinned without being rude.
Toren (light): "New face. Name's Toren. I run postings to the board, the annex, and the east gate."
Sera (mild): "Useful routes."
Toren tapped the stack with a knuckle, voice low.
Toren (low): "If you want early work, come just after first bell. Some captains move at dawn. Quiet coin if you're quick. You didn't hear that from me."
Mira gave Toren a flat look. He shrugged and went to the board to tie three fresh slips with cord and press brown wax over the knots.
Mira (soft): "Pay him no mind. But if you must take dawn work, take the docket before you leave, and bring it back with the proper mark when complete. No forgeries—the Guild will know."
Sera (even): "Whose marks matter?"
Mira turned the ledger and tapped a tidy list.
Mira (soft): "Temple quarter—Guard Hadrin countersigns properly and reads the line twice. South gate—Sergeant Kellan works in a hurry, he notches the docket edge with his knife. Annex—Clerk Perri keeps copies that match the master seal exactly."
Sera looked at each name. Fixed them in her mind. On the wax tablet strapped inside her sleeve, she scored short marks with a bone stylus:
Hadrin (temple) — proper countersign, reads text.
Kellan (south gate) — knife-notch, hurried.
Perri (annex) — exact copies, seals match master.
Sera (quiet): "Thank you."
From the main hall, a short bell rang. A trainer called for basic forms and three young adventurers followed, laughing. Sera stepped closer to the notice board. Toren was watching the room while he tied the slips.
Toren (low, friendly): "If you want to be seen as harmless, take small work first. Lost parcels. Kitchen-door escorts. It builds trust."
Sera (mild): "I like quiet work."
Toren (grinned): "Then Dawnspire will like you."
Sera chose two simple slips:
"Escort two baskets to the temple kitchens before second bell."
"Check waystones along the south lane. Note broken marks."
She carried them back to the counter. Mira checked the numbers, pressed the guild seal into brown wax on each docket, and dusted the ink dry.
Mira (soft): "If the guard forgets to countersign, ask once. If he refuses, bring the docket back as it is. Do not counterfeit the wax."
Sera (nodded): "I do not counterfeit."
Mira allowed the smallest smile.
Mira (soft): "Then we will get along."
Sera tucked the slips beneath her cloak. She tied her token so it showed clearly. On her way out, she counted steps to the door and marked which crews talked of dawn work.
Toren (calling, friendly): "First bell, if you want to catch the quiet carts!"
Sera raised a hand, nothing more. Morning light met her in the street. She turned toward the temple quarter. Small jobs first. Clean countersigns. A path that looked harmless.
10:00 a.m. - At Outer Wards and Markets
Sera left the guild with two small jobs and one escort slip tucked in her cloak. Her iron token showed at her belt. She walked like any low-rank runner. Head low. Steps quiet.
She chose the quiet work.
- Lost parcel: a bundle of dyed thread at a stall.
- Path-check: note broken waystones along the south lane.
- Escort: two baskets to the temple kitchens before second bell.
The city smelled of tallow smoke, wet wool, and old blood. The streets were damp. Pigeons watched from beams. Crows picked at scraps.
At the south lane, Sera used charcoal and the wax tablet strapped inside her sleeve. She marked what mattered.
Wax tablet:
- Three waystones lean, one stag rune is cracked.
- South Gate change near first bell and third bell.
- Sergeant Kellan: knife-notch on dockets, he works fast.
- Guard Hadrin (temple): reads lines, proper countersign.
A weaver's boy ran up, wringing his apron.
Weaver's Boy (hopeful): "Miss, my bundle—dyed thread—did you see it?"
Sera (mild): "Which stall?"
He pointed. The bundle lay under a cloak at a shaded bench. Sera checked the wax bead on its tie—plain brown with the boy's thumb mark—then handed it to him.
Weaver's Boy (bright): "You saved my job!"
Sera (even): "Keep your seal up, not down."
He ran off, smiling. Sera moved on.
At the temple kitchens she delivered two baskets—bread and wrapped cheese. The sleepy porter opened the door with his shoulder and pressed a small countersign into the brown wax on her docket. He did not read the line.
Porter (short): "Under the shelf. Mind the step."
Outside, a lazy guard leaned on a post. Dust on his boots. Heavy lids. He glanced only at the wax. He nicked the docket's edge with his knife and waved her through.
Not a reader. A looker.
From deeper in the quarter, the ward hummed in the stone—a faint thread. When a bell changed far away, the hum pulled tight for a breath, then eased.
Sera (to herself): "Twenty-four. The thin window holds."
She left the lane and cut toward the south market. A runner slipped between stalls—Toren, quick steps, ink on his fingers. Two city peelers followed too close. Their hands were hungry for a bribe.
Sera stepped into their path by "accident," the basket on her hip. The first peeler brushed her shoulder. She let the basket tip. Apples rolled under their boots. They swore and split their feet to keep balance.
Sera moved with them. Her hand caught the first man's wrist and turned it past the elbow. Close and neat. His breath burst in a quiet grunt. Her other hand tapped his throat with her pommel. Soft. Hard. He dropped to one knee without a cry.
The second peeler snatched for her cloak. Sera slid inside his reach. She turned her hip and struck under his ear with two knuckles. His eyes went empty. She propped him on a stall leg and lowered his head as if he had drunk too early.
Her face did not change.
Toren paused for half a heartbeat, then kept moving like a smart runner. Sera picked up the apples. She set the basket upright.
Sera (low, to herself): "Uh huh."
She drifted past the peelers. One coughed and found his breath. The other slept a little longer. No alarm. No shout. Just fruit on the stones and heat in their faces.
A rat-faced cutpurse watched from a tallow cart's shadow. He followed. Too close. Eyes on the cord at Sera's waist.
Sera led him to the dye-vats. The air stung. Sound died at a corner wall. She stopped as if to tie her thong. When he reached for the cord, she turned. She took his fingers and walked his hand to the stone in a slow arc until the joint spoke. He hissed.
Sera (low): "What?"
He tried a knife. She trapped his wrist and set the blade into the mortar seam. She leaned a small weight. The knife slipped free into her palm. Her other hand rested at the hinge of his jaw.
Sera (whisper, flat): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
He stared at her calm. She put the knife back wrong-way round and opened his fingers. He stepped back. She let him go.
She washed her hands in a drip from a broken gutter and moved on.
By mid-morning, the south gate thinned. A young watchman fought sleep. His head lifted only when the bell struck. Sera marked it. Near the waystones, she knelt and drew a neat arrow under the cracked stag rune. A priest with a bowl of ash walked by. He did not look down. Good.
On her way back, she brushed elbows with a lantern boy. His wrist showed an old burn from lamp oil. Sera slipped him a coin without looking.
Sera (mild): "Oil the inner arch before second bell. No spills."
He nodded and ran.
At the temple post, Guard Hadrin read her docket and pressed a proper countersign into the wax—clean and centred.
Guard Hadrin (polite): "Keep the kitchen lane clear next time."
Sera (nodded): "Understood."
She filed the day the way she filed breath.
Wax tablet:
- South gate nap window: late morning ebb.
- Temple lane traffic: three before second bell, one after.
- Ward hum: faint near kitchen door, stronger toward the annex road.
- Peelers hunt near dye-vats, avoid on transfer day.
- Drakensvale belt-twists seen in the markets, enemy cities breathe at our doors.
By dusk, the light turned old. A linen cart creaked by. The driver looked down. His pace was steady. Under the cart lip, two light knocks sounded like loose wood. Sera did not turn her head. She let it be part of the day's noise.
She crossed to the guild. The hall hummed. Mira sat at her ledger, neat as a wall of ink.
Mira (soft): "Sign-offs?"
Sera laid the slips down. Each seal was dry. Mira checked the wax impressions, the knife-notch from Kellan, and Hadrin's proper countersign. Her brow moved a hair at Kellan's hurry but she said nothing.
Mira (soft): "Clean work. Keep it steady."
Toren slid in from a side door with a strip of parchment in his teeth.
Toren (low, passing): "Thanks."
Sera did not answer. She took her empty basket and stepped back into the street.
Night breathed on the stones. The ward hum settled in the bones of the city—tight at the bell, loose after twenty-four heartbeats. Sera turned toward the temple quarter, toward Greywatch's shadow, toward the seam she meant to cut.
Help friends first. Open the right door. Then disappear.
05:30 p.m. - At Guild Courtyard Bench
The Adventurer's Guild courtyard smelled of stew and wet stone. Evening lamps burned low, and the last light of day slid across the flagstones. Sera sat on a worn bench near the ivy wall, a wooden cup warming her hands. She listened.
At the next bench, three mid-rank adventurers spoke in low voices. Their cloaks steamed in the cool air. They had the look of people who counted steps and watched doors.
Axeman (annoyed): "Temple seals again. Wrong colour wax, wrong hour—same nonsense every week."
Bowwoman (dry): "That's because the priest on second bell never reads the line. He only looks at the wax circle. If the circle's clean, he waves you through."
Spearman (sighing): "And if the impression's smudged?"
Bowwoman (flat): "Back to the annex you go."
Sera sipped, eyes down, ears open.
Spearman (lower): "The wards felt heavier today. Who was on the rotation?"
Axeman (thinking): "Not the apprentice. The hum held too long. Could be Magister Halvian again. Second Day, like clockwork."
Bowwoman (nods): "Aye. Halvian likes order. Wards strong between first and second bell. If you cross after the bell change, they thin a hair."
Spearman (curious): "And on Third Day?"
Bowwoman (shrugs): "The young one takes it. The hum rises and drops early. Sloppy, but not weak."
Sera moved her cup, as if to warm her hands, and glanced at the ivy. The wax tablet in her sleeve waited. With a bone stylus, she scored small marks the way a soldier breathes.
Wax tablet (new note):
- Ward caster: Halvian on Second Day → long hold (first → second bell).
- Apprentice on Third Day → early drop.
- Temple: clean wax circle passes a glance, priest rarely reads under poor light.
A younger adventurer crossed the courtyard with a bowl. He sat on the edge of their bench, caught in their grumbling stream.
Younger Adventurer (curious): "What about the annex? Perri still ties and seals every runner's slat to match the master?"
Axeman (snorts): "Perri's knots are straight as a spear. If Perri pins it, it stays pinned. If it moves, someone higher pushed it."
Bowwoman (with a small smile): "Unless a clerk miscopies a room. Then the board and the ledger fight until someone sands it smooth."
Sera let herself breathe slow. Bells. Seals. Hands and habits. The seams were small, but there.
A pair of new arrivals cut through the courtyard—dusty cloaks, quiet boots, the wrong belt-knot for Aurelthorn. Drakensvale fashion: a tucked twist at the hip. One of them veered too near Toren, who had just stepped from the hall with a bundle of notices and ink still wet on his fingers. The stranger's hand drifted to Toren's belt cord in a thief's lazy reach—not for coin. For the little guild seal-ring that marked a runner's authority.
Sera set her cup down.
Her body moved before the eye could think. She rose into their path like a draft from a door. The stranger's shoulder clipped hers—exactly as she chose. She let the cup tilt, stew sloshing onto his wrist. He flinched, hissed. In that blink, she had his hand: fingers turned past the elbow, a precise wrench that made the joint speak but left no mark. His other hand twitched toward a knife. Sera stepped inside his reach and pressed her thumb into the hinge of his jaw—light as a whisper, heavy as a verdict. His breath broke.
Sera (low): "What?"
The second man shifted, a half-lunge. Sera did not look at him. Her heel found the bench's leg and nudged it just so, wood scraped, the Spearman's staff tilted, and the second man's shin met seasoned oak. Pain slowed him for the heartbeat she needed. She let the first one go like spare cloth.
Sera (whisper): "We'll get through this, together—if you walk away."
The line came out flat, a ghost of a memory. Seraphina had once thrown those words like a banner at men in a line. Sera used it like a knife sheathed in velvet.
The first man measured the calm in her face and the angle of her hands. He chose not to test them. He tugged his companion's sleeve. They left with muttered apologies, too neat for true remorse, too fast for locals.
Toren stood where he was, smart enough not to grin until they were gone.
Toren (low): "Thanks."
Sera did not answer. She righted the cup and let the stew run into the drain. She watched the alley mouth until it breathed normal again. Then she sat.
At the next bench, the talk eased back to its usual complaints.
Spearman (rubbing his brow): "If I had coin for every time the temple guard said 'wrong wax,' I'd buy a cart."
Bowwoman (mild): "Use market beeswax. Not the temple's blue-grey. Looks official enough to pass a glance if it's neat."
Axeman (leans back): "And if the annex runner asks where you came by a clean docket?"
Bowwoman (with a shrug): "Smile. Say 'from Mira's window.' People trust neat ink."
Sera's eyes slid to the hall door. Inside, Mira sat at her ledger, steady as a bell. Toren pinned a fresh slip on the board, whistling under his breath.
Sera (to herself): "Names. Bells. Hands. Habits."
A rumour drifted with the steam from the stew pot.
Older Adventurer (quiet, to his friend): "I heard Aemond himself stood a Second Day last month. 'Stay sharp, everyone. Tactical advantage comes from the elements we control,' he told the boys. The hum never faltered."
The words slotted into place. Aemond's steady hand, Halvian's order. The annex lane left open for runners when the city locked its shields. The seam stayed where she needed it.
She stood, slow and simple, and left her empty cup on the bench. As she passed the group, their talk turned to caravans, bribes, and sore feet. She let it flow past her without a ripple.
Under the arch, the courtyard's lamp hissed. Sera paused long enough to slide the bone stylus across the wax tablet in her sleeve.
Wax tablet:
- Second Day: Halvian (long hold), Aemond rumoured steadying hand.
- Temple wax: blue-grey formal, market beeswax passes if clean.
- Annex clerk Perri: knot-and-seal master, room code shifts matter.
- Drakensvale belt twist seen in Dawnspire—enemy cities breathe at our doors.
Sera (to herself): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
Lyscia's maxim—iron, not noise—sat clean in her chest.
She stepped into the hall. Mira looked up.
Mira (soft): "Done for the day?"
Sera (even): "Soon."
She turned for the door. The bell near the rafters marked the hour. The courtyard cooled, and the lamp shadows leaned long across the floor.
Outside, Sera drew night air like a blade. Greywatch's shadow lay where it had always been. The seam she meant to cut had not moved.
Next:
- Test a harmless docket at the kitchen lane with market beeswax.
- Watch the lazy guard's eye under poor light.
- Confirm Halvian's cadence once more.
- Keep the guild's runners unmarked.
Surrounded by enemy cities or not, she would keep her friends' names clean and their paths open. Then she would open the right door.
09:00 p.m. - At Temple Kitchen Lane
Night lay soft over the temple quarter. Sera walked the narrow lane beside the kitchens, cloak close, steps quiet. Lanterns made small circles on wet stone. The service door sat under a low arch, its wood rubbed smooth by many hands.
She carried two dockets in her sleeve:
- One sealed with plain brown beeswax (market).
- One sealed with blue‑grey temple wax (traded from a careless acolyte).
She would not force the door. She would pass, wait, watch, and count. The seams tell the truth.
First pass
A sleepy porter pushed the door with his shoulder and tipped a bucket into the runnel. Steam rose and faded. He wiped his hands on an apron, then reached for a basket. Sera walked by with the market‑wax docket held loose at her side, like any late runner.
Porter (short): "Docket?"
Sera (even): "Late check. I'll be back before second bell."
He touched only the wax—saw a clean circle—and nodded. He did not read the line. The circle passed.
Sera kept moving. She was no one.
She marked the rhythm on the wax tablet strapped inside her sleeve. Bone stylus. Short marks.
- Door opens every three to four minutes.
- Two baskets go in, one comes out, peelings after.
- Porter presses countersign fast, rarely reads.
Second pass
A temple guard leaned on a post near the arch—the same lazy one as before. Dusty boots. Heavy lids. Sera came back with the temple‑wax docket between two fingers so the seal was clear.
Lazy Guard (flat): "Seal?"
Sera (mild): "Clean circle."
He looked only at the wax, not the words. He nicked the docket's edge with his knife, a quick tally, and waved her through.
Sera added three neat cuts on the inner tablet:
- Guard checks the wax, not the line.
- Knife‑notch replaces a signature.
- Poor light hides the colour shift (brown vs blue‑grey).
Bells and hum
A small bell sounded somewhere across the quarter. Sera stood just left of the north lamp and set two fingers to the wall. Faint in the stone, the ward began to rise—tight like a string pulled true.
She breathed with it. Slow. Even.
The cross‑bell change rolled through the air. The hum held hard for a breath, then thinned. She counted.
Sera (to herself): "One… two… three… twenty‑four."
The thin window was there, just as before. Long enough to pass a door. Long enough to step off a bad path.
Trouble in the lane
A lantern boy trotted under the arch with a clay pot of oil and a bundle of wicks—bare feet, quick eyes. A shadow peeled from the wall behind him: not local—belt twisted Drakensvale‑style, knife hung too low, soft hands. He reached for the boy's shoulder, two fingers ready to pinch and turn.
Sera was already moving.
Her foot found the wet stone first. She let her cloak brush his sleeve, turned with him as if she were part of the air, and set a hand over his mouth. The other hand trapped his knife wrist and pressed it into the wall's seam. She turned his elbow until the joint spoke. Her knee touched behind his heel. Light pressure. Control.
He thrashed once. Sera set her thumb under the hinge of his jaw—gentle, sure. His breath broke.
Sera (low): "What?"
He saw only calm in her face. Fight left him. She turned him sideways, sat him behind a stack of crates, and looped a frayed strap over his wrists. No cuts. No blood. No marks that tell a story. The boy held tight to his oil pot.
Sera (mild, to the boy): "Keep your wicks dry. Oil the inner arch. No spills."
Lantern Boy (whisper): "Aye."
Sera (quieter, a hard promise in soft words): "We'll get through this, together."
The boy ran. The Drakensvale knife‑man breathed slow against the wood and learned stillness.
Third pass
A young acolyte came to the door with a basket of cloth and a pot of incense. He waited in the draft. Sera moved past with the market‑wax docket again, the clean circle forward. His eyes flicked to the wax and away. No questions. No reading in poor light.
Inside, the porter pressed his countersign shallow and fast into brown. Outside, the lazy guard scraped his heel and watched a puddle.
Ward cadence
The bell changed again. The hum rose, held, and thinned—Magister Halvian's habit: strong between first and second bell, a breath of slack after.
Sera wrote the line she needed on the tablet:
- Second Day confirmed—long hold. Thin window after the bell. Twenty‑four.
A soft scrape sounded—boots in the wrong rhythm—then faded. Night returned to small noises: the drip in the runnel, the hiss of tallow, a bold rat under a bench.
Final checks
She crossed once more with the temple‑wax docket so the lazy guard could see the blue‑grey glint. He grunted, nicked, waved. She let the parchment slide back up her sleeve.
She set a hand on the stone—cold, steady—and listened to the hum sink into the wall.
Sera (to herself): "Bells. Seals. Hands. Habits."
She stepped away as she had come. No trail. No rush. The lane breathed, and she breathed with it.
Notes, simple and sharp:
- Market beeswax passes a glance if neat, temple blue‑grey passes the same under poor light.
- The lazy guard checks the circle, not the words, he uses a knife‑notch.
- The porter countersigns fast, eyes on baskets.
- Thin window: twenty‑four heartbeats after the bell change.
- Drakensvale belt‑twists show at night—enemy cities press at our doors.
She looked once toward Greywatch's shadow. Resolve settled like stone.
Sera (under breath): "We cannot afford to hesitate. Now is the time to act."
She turned for the annex road, where paper would choose which doors opened at dawn—and whose names would pass without a second look.